


a lesson in observation

by starblessed



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Character Study, F/M, and then it’s dima appreciation week all around, because I have a lot of feelings about them, ok just gonna be honest here half of this is me ramblin about the romanov family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 13:46:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13591326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Anya notices things about everyone she meets.It’s funny how the littlest things about a person can tell you all that you need to know.





	a lesson in observation

**Author's Note:**

> My friend challenged me to write for a tumblr prompt:
> 
> “Quiddity: the essence or inherent nature of a person or thing / an eccentricity; an odd feature / a trifle; a nicety or quibble”
> 
> And it turned into a half-Romanov fam character study and half Dimya feels because I had to do this, I’m sorry
> 
> (Can you tell I really love Marie? I really really love Marie)

Observing isn’t a skill Anya needs to remember. It is just something she knows, from the moment she wakes up alone in a hospital bed.

She must have had the talent before, she eventually decides. Maybe she once was the sort of person who never missed anything. Then again, she could have been a totally careless person, whose only regard for others was how she could get them to do what she wanted. This is equally likely. Even with the few fragments of her old life that she does have, trying to make something of them is like putting a jigsaw puzzle together in the dark.

Anya only realizes she notices things after she’s been noticing them for a long time. It seems natural to pick up on the tiny quirks of a person: the way Sister Nadya used to bite her lips, or how her new boss holds his back straight to tower over the other workers. Only after she picks up on this quirk of her own does she start considering what all of it might mean.

The foreman wants to appear larger and intimidating to the workers; he probably likes to feel that way tool. Sister Nadya bit her lips because she was anxious, more each passing day. The pink-skirted prostitute who haunts Anya’s bridge is so aggressive because she’s lonely —or hungry. Probably both.

Anya quickly realizes that people are simple. The smallest things about them can tell you all you need to know.

* * *

_It was odd, Anastasia often thought, how the littlest things about a person could tell you the most about who they were._

_Maria was always the first example her mind leapt to. This was probably because she spent too much time around Maria. Sometimes her closest sister could get annoying; Maria had many habits that were distinctive, and said as much about her as they did about Anastasia’s_ limitless _patience. Somehow she tolerated her, though there were times when Anastasia wished she could leap across their shared bedroom and smash a pillow into her sister’s face. Just so Maria could stop being a pest._

(Temper, _she reminded herself. Mama was always scolding her for her temper. A grand duchess should not lose her head over anything — though Anastasia considered herself anything but a model duchess.)_

_Maria chewed her nails. It was an anxious habit; it was also a bored habit. They might be sitting and reading in silence, when Anastasia would get distracted by the persistent gnawing noises that meant Maria was at it again._

_Sometimes she scolded her sister, sometimes she didn’t bother. Tatiana was much more strict with her. “How will you find a husband if you’ve got stubby fingernails?”_

_Tatiana always knew the right thing to say (or the worst thing). Maria fretted endlessly over her habit, but could never seem to kick it._

_“When you see me biting them,” she told her sisters in a resolute voice, “just snap at me. If I don’t stop, hit me. I’ll never be able to beat it otherwise.”_

_That was just like Maria. She lacked a fundamental sort of confidence in herself that allowed her to believe she could do things on her own. It was ridiculous. Maria had every right to be confident — she was the best person Anastasia knew (next to their father, probably). She was kind, and generous, and gentle, and, okay, a little boring at times — but that was Maria. Her greatest flaw was that she gave too much of herself; but she always believed, somehow, that she was the odd duck of the family. Not as good as her siblings, not as impressive. So, she wore the shame of bitten nails like a cross on her back._

_Maria did a lot of other little things. She hummed to herself (all the time). She twirled her hair. When she was little, she even used to chew it, which Mama put a swift stop to. Maria also had the habit of leaving her papers and sketches all over the room; she was inconsumately messy. In spite of this, she always scolded Anastasia for her slobbishness, and claimed to be the only one of them who did any real cleaning._

I’m the mess? _Anastasia thought scornfully._ You’re an even bigger slob than I am!

_She never said this to her sister, and never needed to. Maria always cleaned up both their messes anyway. Once again, classic Maria. (Sometimes Anastasia even helped her.)_

* * *

Take, for example, the man on the street corner. The Bolshevik guard who finds her cowering and offered to buy her tea, in a sugar-laced voice that reminds Anya of a viper lying coiled in the grass. She does not know why she distrusts the man, but she does. She doesn’t want to get any closer to him than she has to.

It takes her a little while to figure out why. It’s all in the way that the man holds himself; shoulders square, back straight, proud and regal in every way that ought to suit him, but doesn’t. He is trying very hard to fill out the uniform he wears. Of course, he is intimidating, and he is powerful… but there is something about him that suggests an undercurrent of self-consciousness. Like a little boy trying too hard to fit into his father’s work uniform.

That man, she realizes, is trying to be someone he is not.

 _(Who?_ She doesn’t know. She can not see into anyone else’s history; they are as much an enigma to her as her own.)

* * *

_Olga was restless. She pretended to be good at hiding it, but she was. Anyone close to her knew it; some didn’t understand why, but Anastasia did. When her sister drummed her fingertips against the table in a ceaseless rhythm or bounced her leg under her chair, Anastasia understood._

_She could never really understand the pressures of being the eldest daughter, but she knew Olga chafed at it. She was the one scrutiny always fell on; the one expected to marry first, to lead, to set an example. Olga bore her burdens like weight upon her soul. It made her moody, and made her restless._

_Tatiana was very good at keeping a cool face in public. She rarely allowed her emotions to show. She was an expert at remaining aloof and coolheaded in a crisis, and could exercise the same virtues when dealing with stupid people. Anastasia admired that. She_ also _knew about her sister’s habit of betraying herself with tiny noises, which gave her entire facade away. (Not to just anybody, of course, only the people who knew Tatiana best.) When she found something funny and didn’t want to show it, she’d ‘hmm’. When she was distressed, she made a tiny grunt, like a pig. When she was thinking hard about something, it was always ‘huh’ or ‘oh’ under her breath._

 _“You keep talking to yourself and all of Russia will think you’re a crazy woman,” Anastasia teased. Tatiana looked up at her, eyes flashing, and spat a rebuke that sent Anastasia into a fit of laughter. That was another thing about Tatiana — she had a waspish temper. She liked to pretend she was above it, however; because Tatiana was_ responsible, _and always had to be responsible for everyone else._

* * *

When Anya meets Vlad Popov, she feels like she knows him already. He has an untrimmed beard and a threadbare coat, but he wears it with pride. This is a man used to looking well and being respected. Perhaps he derived most of his respect from how he looked, once upon a time.

This is how she knows immediately that Vlad is not what he appears. It becomes obvious about five minutes into their acquaintance. He and Dmitry are conmen.

This itself is not the thing that takes Anya by surprise. She’s lived in the streets. She understands that people will do anything to get by, and some are better at it than others. She doesn’t approve of the duo’s lies, but she doesn’t scorn them for it. And if they can help her…

Well, she can put her faith in them for a little while.

In Vlad, at least. She likes Vlad; he has the manners of a gentleman. He soothes her when her temper flares up, and treats her like a lady instead of a simple street sweeper. Even if he does want to believe that she’s the lost princess, he still treats her like _Anya_ — a human being. This is what counts to her, because it’s so rare. The world is cold and lonely. Very few people look at Anya and see someone worthy of respect. Vlad is one of them.

So, Anya likes Vlad. She’s willing to trust him.

Dmitry is another story.

* * *

_Alexei was simple, but that’s because he was young. When he got older, he’d doubtlessly get harder to figure out, and develop other quirks that Anastasia could hardly make sense of. (Men were always more of a puzzle than women — more annoying.) As it was, she could read him like a book. When his voice raised, he was feeling restless. When he grew rowdy, he needed to blow off steam. When he showed signs of that characteristic wicked humor (which could border on cruel, the one he shared with his closest sister), he was feeling frustrated and constrained._

_Alexei was her best friend. In many ways, he was easier to make sense of than anyone else._

_Alexei liked to throw things. Balls, scrunched up papers, marbles — those were okay. When he started throwing bigger things that actually hurt, this habit had to be stopped. As recompense, Anastasia taught her brother how to make paper airplanes. Poor Nagorny and Derevenko found themselves terrorized endlessly by notebook aviators from the point on -- but Alexei adored them, so it was worth it._

_Alexei was as stubborn as Anastasia — if possible, even more so. Everyone tried to control him, so he resisted them all. He didn’t want other people to dictate his life for him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t up to him._

_“You’re a young boy, and the tsarevich,” Anastasia told him one day. “You have no choice. One day you’ll be in charge, and then you can tell the rest of us what to do.”_

_Alexei was closest to Anastasia, perhaps, because he could neither boss her around, nor did she try to control him. They were partners-in-crime. Equals._

_“I still don’t like it,” he told her._

_“Good. Dislike it even more when you’re older, and maybe you’ll do something about it.”_

* * *

She’s never met anyone harder to read that Dmitry.

It’s kind of silly, in a way. She can puzzle out the natures of conmen and Bolshevik guards… yet somehow her instincts lead her awry when it comes to a simple man.

Maybe her problem is that she doesn’t know enough about Dmitry. Then again, she didn’t know much about the Bolshevik guard, but she could get a handle on him. Dmitry is different; he’s a mystery all of his own.

She knows that he’s two years older than her; he’s lived in Leningrad his entire life, and was on the streets for a lot of it. His family is gone — she doesn’t know where. (She’s seen the police drag people away in the dead of night, though; she can guess.) All of this, she learns from Vlad. Dmitry is frustratingly close-lipped on the topic of himself.

When he’s nervous, he flips things. Coins, if he’s got one in his pocket; but sometimes little stones or even pencils will do the trick as well. He daydreams when he’s bored, but acts like he wasn’t if he’s caught. He acts tougher than he really is. (Anya doesn’t know if he’d ever actually hit her, though he seems ready to fight most of the time.) He musses with his hair when he’s thinking hard. His ribs are ticklish.

She’s learned all of this about Dmitry, and can make sense of none of it.

Everything about him is a question, and she’s not sure the answers exist. Perhaps they are buried too deeply in the past. Years have worn the Dmitry that _was_ away, obliterated like dust on the wind. Maybe there never was any Dmitry before, only the Dmitry that exists now, and maybe there are no hidden secrets to him. Perhaps everything about him is exactly as it appears. Perhaps Dmitry really is that frustrating, rude, and insufferable.

Of course, Anya doesn’t really believe that. No one is as they appear.

* * *

_Mama suffered from headaches and heartaches, which required her to shut herself in her boudoir for days at a time. The worst of her afflictions reared their nasty heads during times of stress -- such as whenever the court demanded she make an appearance. When the family was in crisis, however, Mama was always right there. She never shrunk away when her family needed her. Mama faced all of Alexei’s illnesses with bravery and composure. When her family needed her, Mama was fearless._

_Papa was quiet at work and at home, but he had a smile like no other. In Anastasia’s opinion, her father’s smile told someone all they needed to know about the Tsar of All of Russia. It was reserved, gentle, and warm — just like him._

_Anastasia knew her family inside and out. They were all close to one another; in many ways, they were the greatest parts of each other’s worlds. She could never imagine her life without her parents, brother, and sisters in it._

_In fact, the only reason she knew her family so well was_ because _they were all so close._

_Strangers were different. They were much harder to figure out._

* * *

There’s a key to unlocking the mystery of Dmitry, and he hands it to her on a cloudless night, beneath the skies of St. Petersburg.

(She never knew Petersburg. She only knew the city when it was the cold grey of Leningrad, as unforgiving as a forest in the middle of winter. She never knew the warmth he described; the memories, the freedom, the sense of power within yourself. All Anya has known of the city is its streets and its people. Neither endear themselves to her.

Even so, when Dmitry describes it, she can’t help but fall in love with the city she has never known.)

“This is my place,” Dmitry tells her. “Even when the day comes that it won’t want me anymore… there’ll never be any other. This city will always be mine.”

And this, Anya realizes, is the essence of Dmitry. The love of his city, which is more than a city to him — it is his home. Petersburg is an extension of himself. He knows the streets and alleys as well as he knows his own mind. He is never more alive than when he is under the Petersburg sky. She has never seen him look more happy, more free, more _true,_ than with the stars in his eyes.

On these streets, he is invincible.

This is Dmitry, she realizes. Not the crude boy who degraded her when they first met; not the schemer who grows frustrated with her when she can’t remember a history that isn’t hers. This is Dmitry: completely sure of his own heart, loyal and fearless, standing on his own because he’s convinced he never needed anyone else. Not hurting, because he’s never allowed himself to. Strong, because he’s found himself in the streets that shaped him.

 _This_ is Dmitry, and Anya thinks she falls a little bit in love with him.

* * *

There is a moment of perfect clarity. That one second that shines through the gloom, when she realizes the truth. She loves Dmitry; Dmitry loves her; and they both know each other better than anyone else ever will.

To him, she is not _Anastasia._  (She hasn’t been Anastasia for a long time, really.) She is not a princess. She is not a figure in a gilded carriage, floating out of his reach.

She is in his arms, as real and alive as the spirit of Russia that flows through their veins. To him, she is Anya; and to her, he is Dmitry.

She understands him now better than she ever understood herself.

“You would have left,” she whispers. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t fair to you,” he answers, and that’s all Anya needs to hear.

_Loyal. Fearless. Devoted to a fault. Believes he doesn’t need anything else._

To think, Dmitry used to make her wonder if she wasn’t losing her touch. Now she can’t imagine a time when she didn’t understand him.

“I’m glad I caught you,” she tells him. “If you left, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

She cracks a small, uninhibited smile. This is the man who gave her past back to her. This is who she wants to spend her future with. She wants to understand everything about him, to get the chance to notice the little quirks he hasn’t even realized himself. She wants as much of Dmitry as he will let her have.

“I understand,” she whispers, and presses a kiss to his lips.

Even for a moment, she understands him perfectly.

* * *

_Anastasia certainly wouldn’t say she had any great skill for observation, but sometimes… sometimes she’d see something and immediately know who she was talking to. Sometimes one little thing about a person could be all she needed._

_For example, the boy._

_She didn’t think about the boy often. He was no more than a memory, made hazy by sun and time — but parts of him still remained as clear to her as the day she first saw him. His voice as he shouted her name; his wide, wild eyes; his devil-may-care grin._

_The thing she remembered most about the boy who chased their carriage during the parade, however, was how he ran._

_Anyone could run, but not like him. Anastasia chased her sisters amidst countless gardens, raced with them down beaches and through palace hallways. Still, she has never, ever, run like the boy from the parade._

_The boy from the parade ran like the world was chasing at his heels, and he believed he could pull ahead of it all. He ran as if nothing on earth could hold him back._

_That was all Anastasia needed to know about him._


End file.
